The Morning Breeze Is Off And Gone

The Winding Factory Streets Are Clean

Old Ladies Put The Kettle On

And All-night Lechers Pause And Lean

On Grey Shop Windows, Everywhere

A Deeper Hum Is In The Air

Hotel Room, Drifter Leaves No Clues



He Rides A Freight-train Out Of Town

And Whistles At The Icy Rime

The Cattle Float Like Thistle-downs

And God Is On The Edge Of Time

Somewhere Behind A Siren Wails

The Freight-train Soars Above The Rails

The Traveller, He's Hard As Nails

As The Train Sweeps Down The Line



The Salmon Season's Here To Stay

And Etched Into Each Shoulder-bone

The Mark Of Cain Is On Display

As Stone Above Each Measured Stone

Old Dresden Burns Above The Breeze

The Traveller, He's On His Knees

He's Watching Sledge-wings Dip And Play

So Far Above The Holy Throne



Dresden Blues . . .